I’m only 17 weeks pregnant and I feel like I’ve been pregnant for five fucking years already.
As I sit here writing this, I have a nagging pressure in my lower abdomen that could be either round ligament pain or a fart cramp or a combination of both. My boobs hurt constantly, and although I read in one of my pregnancy books that a woman’s nips and areola get big and dark during this time, they neglected to include the fact that said lady bits do not grow symmetrically. And a few days ago, I found out what comes out of you after you give birth. Like for weeks. I. Was. Distraught.
I’ve only cried once today, which is a win for me. I usually cry much more, and the really fun part is that nobody, especially my well-meaning husband, knows what will set me off. Today, it was my husband’s light-hearted ball-busting (something we both used to enjoy pre-prego) that left me sobbing over my plate of scrambled eggs. He (smartly) treated me to a prenatal massage this afternoon and my massage therapist’s magic hands seem to have at least temporarily taken the edge off of my erratic pregnancy rage.
As I write this, it’s been two weeks and my best friend and the world and I have barely spoken, partly because of the aforementioned erratic pregnancy rage, and a little bit (okay, maybe like 80%) because of my pre-pregnancy penchant for stubbornness and a huge, crippling discomfort of facing those who I know I’ve done wrong.
So, here I sit, best friendless and fluctuating between mild weepiness and full-blown rage, with my purple boob splotches and nagging fart/uterus cramp and my feet elevated because lately, they hurt for no goddamn reason, trying to be quiet and Zen and give my poor husband a few moments of peace before the inevitable next crisis hits.
I’m just gonna be honest: I fucking hate pregnancy.
I catch so much shit for saying that. But it’s true.
No, I don’t hate that I’m having a baby. I love my baby. I wanted my baby, which is an odd thing to even have to say, but ever since I got knocked up, people seem to think “So, was this planned?” is an appropriate question. Now that I know this is acceptable, I’m going to ask the same of others as I point to their children.
Just kidding. Maybe.
Anyway, I want this tiny human with every fiber of my being. I loved it the second I saw that faint little pink plus sign on the pee stick. I’d miscarried twice before, so to get pregnant again years later, this time much healthier—50 pounds lighter, doing Crossfit for over a year, sober, smoke-free—was exciting and made everything seem much less scary this time.
Or so I thought.
Pregnancy was fun for all of two weeks. I didn’t wait to share my happy news because hiding it felt like I was waiting for something bad to happen and I didn’t want a second to go by without the world knowing just how excited I was to be a mom. Also, I didn’t want to bring any bad vibes to the ol’ womb. I carried on living my life, Crossfitting my ass off and basking in the joy of my tiny, badass miracle. I was the fittest I’d been in my life and I’d seen women pregnant in the gym, rocking that shit out, still out-lifting me, and I thought, “This is gonna be a fucking breeze.”
Comparison is the mother fucking thief of joy.
First came the spotting at 5 and a half weeks that sent me into an all-out panic and landed me in the ER. Fun fact: Spotting during pregnancy does not merit an ER visit. That was a fun $400 lesson.
Then came the paranoia.
I stayed out of the gym until I could see my OB. I was scared of doing anything, and when I went back, I didn’t do anything without 12 OKs from my doctor. Just like that, my very chill “Hey, things are gonna be different this time,” philosophy was replaced by very real fears of everything.
Turns out, when I said I’d come to terms with my miscarriages, I was full of shit. Those three years of not talking about it in therapy or with my husband or with anyone other than a Word document caught up with me.
The day I spotted, it all came rushing back and hit me like a fucking freight train. I held my breath every time I went to the bathroom or dried up after a shower, fearing the bleeding would increase. Instead of enjoying my workouts like a crazy competitive beast lady, I was running for the restroom every few minutes for fear that I was bleeding. Spoiler Alert: It was just swamp crotch. Just regular ol’ unrelenting pregnant chick swamp crotch.
Queefing, which would normally elicit a mischievous smirk or infantile giggle from me, suddenly left me running for the bathroom because oddly enough, queefs feel a lot like the sensation you get right before you hemorrhage.
I’ve never used queef in a piece of writing before.
On top of my 24/7 fear of miscarrying my kid, I’d also been hit with extreme fatigue and my physical performance dropped dramatically. I wasn’t at all like the other pregos at Crossfit. That part was just disappointing.
Yes Kate and Holly, I’m looking at YOU.
And all of a sudden, I was afraid of everything. Before I got pregnant, I was all, “You know how you get the flu? Worrying about getting the flu?” Now, I’m fucking Matt Damon in Contagion accusing everyone of trying to infect me and my unborn child with mutant cold germs.
And my boobs hurt. And my sleep sucked. And my body ached. And for 11 weeks straight I felt sea sick all day long. And I had this weird metallic taste in my mouth. And I only took a dump like once every four days. And I had acne on my face and back and my legs were all of a sudden chronically chapped. And everyone made me mad which was half my hormones and half people actually saying stupid things to me. Okay, maybe more like 75/25.
Pregnancy is hard. And scary. And a little gross.
And I hate it.
The other day, I felt my kid move for the first time. I know that this is all worth it. I can’t fucking wait to meet that tiny human waiting for me at the end of all of this. I am 100 percent certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt that everything I have done, good or bad, every mistake I have made in my life, everything I’ve been through has all been leading me to meeting this baby and that’s exactly where I’m meant to be.
But growing this kid SUCKS.
And that’s okay.
Some have told me that it’s not okay to say that, but they can suck it. There’s just no way everyone enjoys this. God bless you if you love being pregnant, but I know that I’m not alone in this. There’s got to be someone out there who hates this shit too.
And I’ll bet someone tried to make you feel bad for feeling that way. I’ll bet someone made you feel like you were a shitty mom because you didn’t like the fatigue or the puking or the uterus stretching in ungodly ways.
I’m just gonna say it: I can love my baby while at the same time hate it when I can’t keep my lunch down.
It just feels a little like everyone talks about the glow.
Fuck the glow. I don’t have a glow. That’s just sweat from my freakishly high body temperature. That’s why I no longer wear pants in my home. Fuck pants. Pants are just leg ovens.
This is all worth it. I know it is. My kid will be awesome.
But for now it sucks. And that’s okay.
If you are pregnant and you fucking hate it, I’m going to tell you again: THAT’S OKAY. You can still love your baby and hate the process of growing it. I personally hate baking, but I love the cake at the end. You don’t have to love the process to love the shit out of the end result.
Oh my god, I’d die for a cake right now. Funfetti, please.
Wait, where was I?
Oh yeah. Pregnancy sucks for some of us. I feel like we don’t talk about that part enough. Sit back, relax, and join me as my crazy ass does my best to embrace the suck and walk the weird and twisty road to getting my tiny human.